Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘I told you. I have a car bringing me home. I’m on the way now,’ she says. She adds that she has to update her vlog later tonight and that she’s getting stuff together for a meeting on Monday. Liam clearly isn’t impressed.

  ‘It’s my job!’ she cries eventually. ‘For crying out loud, Liam, don’t you see that?’

  No, it seems he doesn’t. I try even harder not to listen, but she’s getting more and more annoyed and eventually she says that she’s not carrying on with this conversation and cuts him off.

  Do all men resent the women in their lives working? Surely not Leona’s generation. They’ve been brought up with equality. So were we, sort of, because we all thought we could have a go at whatever we wanted, but I guess I never thought that anything I could do would be equal to anything Dave did. I do now, though.

  I say nothing, and after a while she leans forward.

  ‘Why is it that men think whatever it is they want to do is way more important than anything a woman wants?’ She puts words to my own thoughts. ‘It’s the whole bloody alpha-male thing. They’re like babies really. Which isn’t very alpha at all.’

  I still don’t say anything.

  ‘Liam wanted me to go to his place after I finished up today. I already told him I was too busy. But he won’t listen.’

  ‘Is he your boyfriend?’ I ask.

  ‘My ex-boyfriend,’ she says.

  ‘Ah, Leona, don’t do anything rash.’

  ‘It’s not rash to dump someone when they don’t respect what you do,’ she says. ‘And he doesn’t.’

  The issue of respect seems to be looming large in my life at the moment.

  ‘I bet you wouldn’t take any of that crap from your husband,’ she adds.

  Hmm.

  ‘I admire you,’ she says. ‘You’re strong and determined and your daughter is an absolute peach.’

  I’m admired by a Generation X-er. Or Z-er. Or whatever they are. But someone young and relevant. It would be a great feeling if I thought for a second that I deserved it.

  Chapter 27

  Debs rings me on Sunday morning and asks if I’d like to go to IKEA with her. She wants some new lamps for her living room, and because Mick won’t even set foot in the superstore, he’s perfectly happy to let her do the grunt work.

  Dave says he’s going to watch the soccer at home and that he’s happy to keep an eye on Mica and Tom while I go shopping. He says this in a jokey, blokey kind of way and I’m relieved there’s an easier atmosphere between us, even though I know he was irritated by the Leona Lynch job and that he’s still waiting for me to give the green light on another baby.

  The more I think about it, the more I see how having another baby kills two birds with the one stone for him – it makes selling the Merc almost inevitable, as there’s no way I could keep driving with a small baby at home, and it means I would revert to the Roxy I was before. I can understand why he wants her back. She knew what she wanted. She knew what other people wanted. And she made sure that both of those things were the same. But today’s Roxy isn’t like that at all. She really doesn’t know what she wants. Yet she knows what she doesn’t. And she’s not quite so prepared to let other people dictate her life.

  Debs and I follow the prescribed route around IKEA, which, as always on a Sunday, is like a bear garden. But she manages to find two lamps she likes and we make our way to the market hall, where (as always) I load up with scented candles and paper napkins. I know I should probably support my neighbour, Natalie, in the candle purchases, but in all honesty, how can anyone walk out of IKEA without buying something, if only to justify the effort in getting around it in the first place.

  When I arrive home, Dave is in the front garden with a man I don’t recognise. The driver’s door of the Merc is open and Dave is leaning against it. He’s talking to the man, waving his arm expansively as he often does when he’s explaining something. I park the Toyota on the street and get out.

  ‘Hi,’ I say as I walk into the garden.

  ‘Hello,’ says the stranger.

  ‘The kids are acting up,’ Dave tells me. ‘It’s doing my head in. See if you can sort it out, sweetheart, will you?’

  I give him a surprised glance but I leave him and the man together. Dave has an eclectic mix of mates who drop around from time to time – other plumbers or electricians or carpenters – and I’m thinking that this guy is probably here to talk about a job. Which is good. Dave likes being busy.

  I break up the row that’s going on between Mica and Tom over the PlayStation controller. Mica flounces off to her bedroom and Tom settles down in front of the TV. It’s unusual for him to argue with his sister over technology – normally he gives in and reads instead. But I can see that his face is set and this was an argument he definitely wanted to win.

  I go upstairs. Mica is lying on her bed, looking at the ceiling.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask.

  ‘I hate boys,’ she says. ‘They always want what you have.’

  ‘You sometimes want what Tom has,’ I remind her.

  ‘Yes, but when he wants it, he makes such a fuss he always gets it,’ she says.

  Does he? Tom is my gentle child. But perhaps Mica has a point. When his mind is set on something, Tom is unyielding. The thing is, it’s a rarity for him to dig his heels in.

  ‘I didn’t care about the stupid game,’ Mica continues. ‘I minded because I was playing first and he said it was his turn but it wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh well.’ I sit on the bed behind her. ‘Boys can be very silly sometimes.’

  ‘I know.’ She heaves an enormous sigh. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get married.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because you have to be nice to them then,’ she says. ‘You’re stuck with them.’

  I can’t help laughing.

  ‘It’s true.’ Mica’s voice is deadly serious. ‘Granny says so.’

  What on earth has my mother been telling my daughter?

  ‘When you find a man you love, you’ll want to be nice to him,’ I say.

  ‘But will it be worth it?’ Mica doesn’t wait for my reply but gets up and takes a book from her shelf.

  Role reversal, I think, as I hear Tom blasting away on the PlayStation. I hope it’s temporary.

  I’m unwrapping my candles in the kitchen when Dave comes in.

  ‘Who was your friend?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s not a friend.’ Dave opens the cupboard and takes out a jar of coffee. Then he begins to fill the kettle. ‘He’s buying the car.’

  I think I’ve misheard him over the sound of the running water. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s buying the car.’ Dave spoons coffee into a mug.

  ‘What car?’

  ‘The Merc, of course. I uploaded the details onto a few sites yesterday and this guy is interested.’

  ‘You did what?’ I look at him in disbelief. And then, when he doesn’t answer, I add, ‘You can’t sell the car. It’s mine.’

  ‘We’re married,’ says Dave. ‘What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. That’s always been the way, Roxy. As long as it’s there, you’re going to keep finding excuses to drive whenever someone wants. You won’t do like you promised and take a break.’

  I never promised to take a break. That was Dave’s idea.

  ‘This guy, Garrett, will arrange a bank transfer,’ he continues. ‘He’s paying exactly what I wanted – a grand under the price I listed it for. You should be glad, Roxy. You’ll have your life back and we can have another baby and—’

  ‘You can’t sell the Merc,’ I repeat. ‘It’s registered to me.’

  He says nothing.

  ‘Besides . . .’ I feel the anger bubble up inside me. ‘Besides, I don’t want another baby. I like my life as a driver. It’s interesting.’

  ‘Well thanks a lot for that,’ says Dave. ‘I’ve done everything to give you and the kids the best I can afford, and now you’re telling me that your life is boring.’

  ‘O
h, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Don’t throw your eyes to heaven like that,’ he says. ‘These last months you’ve disrespected me in every possible way. You’ve ignored my feelings about the car. You’ve done what you want whenever you want. You don’t consult me about anything. It’s like I’m not good enough for you any more. It’s like you prefer strangers in your car than your own husband. Although they’re not all strangers, are they? Giving you perfume? Putting you up in expensive hotels? I saw that bedroom, remember?’

  ‘How dare you!’ I don’t know if Dave’s accusation, with its kernel of . . . well, not truth exactly, but something, has made me even angrier than I should be. I wonder fleetingly if that’s why he can get so angry when I accuse him of anything. Because he knows that there’s a nugget in there that might not be totally wrong. ‘Can I remind you, Dave McMenamin, that you were the one who shagged the neighbour?’

  ‘You’re going to bring that up as a trump card every time, aren’t you?’ He looks at me in disgust. ‘I thought we were over it. You said you forgave me. I promised it wouldn’t happen again, and it won’t. We have to get back to normal and I’m doing my best. But you’re carrying a grudge and using the car against me. It’s time for me to take a stand.’

  ‘Your stand still doesn’t seem to take account of the fact that you’ve no right to sell it.’

  ‘That car is a symbol of everything that’s wrong in our lives,’ says Dave. ‘And it’s got to go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. It’s over, Roxy.’

  ‘It’s not!’ I cry. ‘I’m building up a good business and I want to keep doing it. You’re right – I don’t want to take a break. And I don’t see why you’re being so bloody pig-headed about it.’

  ‘ I’m being pig-headed!’ He snorts. ‘It’s all about what you want, not what I want or what the kids want.’

  ‘That’s so not true.’

  ‘You’ve become self-centred,’ he continues. ‘You don’t care about us at all.’

  ‘That’s not true either.’ I’m getting angrier by the minute. ‘Before I take a job, I always make sure that there’s someone around to look after the children.’

  ‘Yeah. Instead of them having their mum at home, they’re being shunted around the neighbourhood.’

  Is he right about that? I’ve had the same thought myself when I’m arranging childcare. And yet is it selfish to want to have a life of my own outside of Beechgrove Park? Why do I feel so damn guilty when he clearly doesn’t?

  ‘You don’t care what happens to this family as long as you get what you want,’ he says.

  We’re facing each other across the table and neither of us is backing down. I can see Dave’s jaw clenching and unclenching.

  ‘It’s either that fucking car or me,’ he says eventually. ‘Your choice, Roxy. Your choice.’

  And then he walks out of the room.

  A few months ago, if Dave had stormed out of a room after an argument, I would have given it a few minutes and then gone after him. I would’ve tried to fix things, to find a compromise. But today I don’t. Because there is no compromise. He’s trying to tell me what I can and can’t do, and it’s not right. It shouldn’t be a case of the car or him. It shouldn’t be a case of the car or the children. It shouldn’t be a case of me having to be the one to stop doing what I want so that other people can do what they want instead. I will always sacrifice stuff for my kids because they are my life. But I’ve already done my very best to make sure that driving fits in with their timetables. I could be out on the road from morning till night. And there are times when I’d quite like to be. But I’m not. So I’m going to ignore the guilt, at least as far as Tom and Mica are concerned. I don’t feel one bit guilty about Dave. He’s always done what he wants. And I’ve always supported him. So why can’t he, for once in his life, get behind me?

  And how dare he try to sell Dad’s car – my car – behind my back?

  I’m working myself up into an even greater temper and I decide that I need to get out of the house. So I grab my bag, shout upstairs to Tom and Mica that I’ll be back soon, and go outside, slamming the front door behind me. I get into the Merc and drive to Malahide Castle. I park the car and then stomp around the grounds while my anger bubbles and seethes.

  I think of the last time I was here, with Mum, when I’d left Dave and we accidentally bumped into him and the children. I think of how impressed I was with his parenting skills (even though I didn’t really acknowledge it at the time), and I think about how I allowed the pendulum of forgive and forget to swing in his favour. I wanted to go back to him then. I thought we could make a go of it. Yet we’re not.

  Is that my fault or his? If it’s his, it’s because of Julie Halpin and because of the macho crap he’s coming out with. If it’s mine, it’s because I’m putting myself first. It’s definitely not because I had a silly lustful crush on Ivo Lehane. One that made me think of what it would be like to be with a different sort of man. A man who doesn’t see life in black and white, even if he confesses to having no people skills. Besides, Ivo has issues. I don’t need a man with issues! But the fact that I could fancy someone other than Dave was a shock. I don’t know if I’m impossibly naïve. Or just stupid.

  I’m craving a coffee, so I go into the Avoca café and order a large cappuccino with extra cinnamon on top. I add a slice of chocolate cake to my tray. I haven’t had cappuccino and chocolate cake since I started sticking more closely to Gina Hayes and her healthy-living lifestyle. But when you’re feeling angry and upset, a quinoa bar won’t cut it.

  I’m taking my tray with its comfort food to a table when I hear my name called. I turn around.

  ‘Mum!’ I smile, and then my eyes widen in surprise as I look at the man opposite her. He seems vaguely familiar.

  ‘This is Diarmuid,’ she says.

  The man from the site that’s not Tinder. The man who was happy to go out with women closer to his own age. The man who helped her cook Sunday lunch. I eye him warily.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ I feel I should shake his hand or something, but I’m laden down with the tray and my bag.

  ‘Are Dave and the children with you?’ asks Mum. ‘Do you want to join us?’

  ‘It’s just me,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh. Well sit down.’ She pulls out the empty seat at the table and I put down my tray.

  ‘Do the children have a football match?’ she asks.

  ‘No, they’re at home.’

  ‘You have your husband well trained.’ Diarmuid grins at me.

  If only, I think.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ asks Mum when I don’t say anything.

  ‘Of course. I had a bit of a headache, so I needed to get out.’ I rummage in my bag and take out an unnecessary Panadol, which I wash down with a gulp of cappuccino. I can see Mum giving me a quizzical look, but Diarmuid – who actually looks better in real life than in his photograph, which must be a first for anyone – is saying that Mum has told him a lot about me.

  ‘All good, I hope.’ I keep my voice as cheerful as I know how.

  ‘She says you’re a powerhouse,’ Diarmuid assures me. ‘That you have your own business and drive celebrities all around the country, as well as raising two of the cutest children in the world.’ He grins again. ‘Obviously I think my grandchildren would equal them in cuteness, but well done you, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Times have changed so much since I was a young fella,’ continues Diarmuid. ‘There’s my own daughter working in the bank and her husband at home.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I know the house-husband thing happens, but not among any of my friends.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Diarmuid. ‘She’s quite important, but don’t ask me what she actually does. Ronan is a musician. He gives lessons from home, though obviously they have to fit in around their own children.’

  ‘How old are they?’ I cut off a piece of my chocolate cake. The rich cocoa taste explodes in my mouth and I’m instantly
calmer. It’s been such a long time!

  ‘Tuirean is ten and Luagh is six,’ he says.

  ‘Similar ages to my own.’

  ‘Yes, so Selina told me. I admire women who can do it all.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us are doing it all,’ I say. ‘I think all we’re doing is our best.’

  ‘I admire you anyway,’ says Diarmuid. ‘I was a desperately unreconstructed male until Cara had Tuirean. When she told me that Ronan was planning to stay home with the baby, I nearly had a fit. But her job was way better paid than his, and she’s a real business dynamo. So it made sense. Took me a while to see it, though. I kept thinking of her being under huge pressure and him being a bit of a wimp. Not the case. Not at all.’

  ‘Roxy’s situation is a little different,’ says Mum. ‘She only started driving to help out her dad.’

  ‘But I love it,’ I say firmly. ‘And the business is going from strength to strength.’ I take out my phone and show him my Instagram account.

  ‘They’re great,’ he says as he scrolls through the photos. ‘You have a talent.’

  I explain about the filters and he says he has no real idea of what I’m talking about, but then asks if I’ll take a photo of him and Mum together.

  ‘If you like.’ I look at Mum enquiringly and she nods, so I get up and wait for them to move so that they’re sitting next to each other. I spend a little bit longer than usual making sure that I have them properly framed, then I switch to portrait mode and take the photo.

  They look good in it. Comfortable together. I feel a lump in my throat for Dad.

  ‘Can you do something with it like you’ve done with yours?’ asks Diarmuid. ‘You know, make it look more moody or professional?’

  I experiment with a few filters, then show him the final result.

  ‘Amazing what technology can do,’ he says. ‘I remember the days of leaving film with the chemist and being surprised when you got your photos back because you’d forgotten what was on the roll.’

  I can’t imagine that. I really can’t.

  ‘Send it to me and I’ll share it with him,’ says Mum, who’s totally up to speed.